


Impropriety

by subjxctsixteen (astxrwar)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Dubcon Kissing, F/M, Prompt Fill, can be read as underage, this is so bad omfg, tw for manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9218108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/subjxctsixteen
Summary: Haytham has a student, and she is perfect. He, of course, is endlessly infatuated.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Soooo... Idk how u feel abt kinky shit but I'd die for some daddy kink, age difference ac rogue haytham? just... i have such a thing for age differences and power play and i just get that feel from him yknow? I was thinking like... reader is his protege and studies under him as a templar in training and one day he finds her snooping around his room and like... he pretends to be mad at her just so that he can comfort her afterwards (because he’s manipulative and a Bad Man) and that leads to some dubious consent kissing which leads to full consent kissing and also maybe some touching and the reader is super unsure abt it bc… she’s a virgin but Haytham’s totally into it for the whole control reason, right? And there’s a lot of praise kink shit going on and eventually the reader calls him “daddy” and his reaction is to be totally into it. I just want some manipulative haytham and a younger reader with daddy kink and praise kink thrown in. Please.
> 
> Author's Note: hoooo boy this went overboard BIG TIME i am SO SORRY

She’s his  _ protege _ . She’s his student and his success story and his good luck charm and his  _ masterpiece,  _ really, but mostly she’s just  _ his. _

_ Undoubtedly  _ and  _ wholeheartedly  _ his.

He finds her one evening searching through his quarters-- looking for answers, no doubt, searching for information to fill in the gaps of what he had deigned to tell her about Templars, about what it means to be one. And perhaps she wants to find even a glimpse into who the Grand Master really is, beyond his interactions with her. It’s not really disobeying; Haytham hadn’t explicitly forbade her from doing so, and in retrospect it was only natural for her to want to know more. That’s why she was chosen, after all-- the undying thirst to know, to discover and learn; it was something to be cultivated. 

He isn’t angry.

No, not in the slightest, but when he orders her out from his closet where she had hidden he forces his voice to be hard and cold-- and her reaction is instantaneous. 

She  _ wilts.  _

Her face freezes with an expression of paralyzing dismay-- not at being caught, no, but at angering her mentor-- and her eyes are wide and frightened and her bottom lip is trembling and,  _ oh,  _ Haytham thinks, he’s slightly drunk on just how much  _ power  _ he holds over her. Even though he shouldn’t be and even though the fact that he  _ is  _ means that he is, in all likelihood, a bad,  _ bad  _ man.

_ Unfortunate,  _ he thinks, altogether disinterested with that train of thought.

He orders her to sit down, keeps his voice stern and slightly irritated as he commands her to tell him what she had been doing, sees her squirm and hug her arms to her chest before she gathers enough courage to answer.

Her explanation is as expected. 

It comes tumbling out in quick, jumbled-up snippets, but Haytham quickly gets the point-- it had been an innocent mistake, she had only wanted to find answers, to  _ understand  _ the mess she had been dragged into. She wanted to know what it meant to be a Templar, and what better way to get the truth than to search for information from the Grand Master himself? And, of course, that had led to some harmless snooping, which would explain why his desk was not as he left it-- and then, she explains, she heard a sound from the bedroom, panicked, and hid in the closet.

Her story finishes and he allows the silence to grow, until she’s suffocating under the weight of it and he can see her struggling with the decision of whether or not to speak.

“I’m --i’m sorry, sir,” she whispers, squirming in her seat under the harshness of his gaze. “Are you-- are you angry with me?”

He looks at her a moment longer, expression impassive, watches as she struggles to hold back what could only be tears.

He allows his expression to soften.  _ Finally. _

“No, no,” he says, voice gentler, as she takes in a quick, shuddering breath, staring hard at the floor. Haytham takes her chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilts her head up until she’s looking at him, blue eyes wide and slightly watery. “No, of course not. Shh. I was simply worried, I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s all right.”

Her expression flickers from surprise to relief to gratitude in a matter of seconds, and Haytham smiles faintly, pulls her into his arms and rests his head by her ear. “Oh, darling girl,” he murmurs, “Why would I ever be angry with you?”

She shivers at his voice-- a low, rumbling baritone, impossibly smooth and impossibly sure and perhaps a  _ little  _ too sensual given the current circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his chest, “I know, sir, but I just thought-- you seemed so--”

He pulls back just enough to look at her, and she falls silent. Haytham doesn’t speak for several long moments, each impossibly soft and incredibly intimate, as he watches her come to her senses and realize their closeness. A blush floods her cheeks, the sensation it evokes in his gut heady and sweet, but he does nothing, content to let her scramble in her thoughts, no doubt wracked with uncertainty and perhaps even  _ worry-- _

She tries to move back, and Haytham tightens his grip on her elbows, keeps her pressed to his chest. She squirms, not quite trying to escape-- more just expressing how completely out of her depth she finds herself.

“Look at me,” he says, voice soft, although it’s still an order.

She bites her lip, rolls it between her teeth, and Haytham’s eyes flicker to her mouth, cherry-red and hopelessly enticing. He finds himself wondering what it would be like to steal a kiss, maybe two, to trap her against the wall and have her struggle with the morality of what they were going and ultimately submit to her mentor who knows better, who she  _ trusts _ to treat her kindly, even in matters like that. It wouldn’t be too difficult to take what he wants, if he were so inclined and if he were, possibly, a worse man than he had originally thought.

No, he wouldn’t do that. Not to her.

_ My darling girl, _ he thinks, rather fondly.

Her eyes finally meet his, and Haytham finds himself dragged away from his fantasy with a startling amount of force. 

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying sweetly, even though he very much isn’t. “I’m terribly sorry for frightening you.”

She shakes her head stubbornly. “No, it’s-- You were right, sir, I shouldn’t have--”

“You may do whatever you please here,” he interrupts her, keeping his voice gentle, soft, comforting, and watching her slowly relax in his grip. It’s amazing, what he can do to her with only his words, how he can so easily undo his earlier actions with a kind voice and the slightest praise. “I should not have been so angry. It was no wrongdoing of yours.”

“Master Kenway--”

“I’ve told you to call me Haytham,” he says, allowing the slightest curl of a warm smile to find him. 

He watches her falter, watches her search for a response and ultimately come up with nothing. Again, he allows the silence to stretch, and stretch, and  _ stretch,  _ but this time instead of breaking it Haytham allows it to continue until something has to give or snap or  _ shatter- _ -

He reaches out,  _ tsks  _ quietly, and smooths the stray hairs back from her face, tucking the loose strands behind her ear and tracing down the side of her cheek with his thumb, watching her carefully as she shivers with a mixture of uncertainty and confusion.

_ “ _ Master  Ken--  _ Haytham,”  _ she mumbles, breaking the silence with a plea that sounds more like a question-- and he’s too busy damn near groaning at the way she says his name to wonder what the question is.

“Oh, darling girl,” he breathes, and she leans into the hand cupping her cheek--  _ finally,  _ he thinks, inwardly victorious-- and shuffles nervously, uncertain of whether or not to press closer or move away, whether Haytham would even allow her to do either. “ _ My  _ darling girl.”

He leans in, pulls her closer, feels her hands press against his chest--

And the kiss, when it comes, is perfect.

Her lips are warm and soft and pliable and her body is tense but she’s not fighting it, teetering between protest and acceptance as he slants his mouth over hers, the action unmistakably possessive and yet still  _ gentle.  _ Her body is small and slender against his and he can’t help the desire to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her to him. And she lets him, moves closer when he urges her to, trembling hands flitting across his chest like she’s unsure of what, exactly, she should be doing--

He breaks the kiss for a second and studies her face, memorizes the surprise and confusion and innocence there like his life depends on it.

He kisses her again, just because he can, this one brief and chaste. And then again, and again, and  _ again,  _ each time slightly longer, until finally he pulls back and when he does--

When he pulls back she pushes up on her toes just a little, tries to chase him, but loses the nerve or lacks the experience, although to Haytham the reason for her faltering is, frankly, irrelevant.

He says nothing, but his eyebrows are raised and his expression is  _ knowing  _ as he watches her blush and stammer and stare up at him with those wide,  _ wide  _ eyes--

And Haytham just hums, allows a victorious half smile to cross his features. “What was that, darling? Would you like for me to kiss you again?” He asks, voice surprisingly sweet, considering his intentions are anything but.

She bites her lip and worries it between her teeth as her hands form fists in the thick woolen fabric of his overcoat.

Her response is so quiet he barely hears it.

“Master Kenway-- _ Haytham _ \--” she starts. He smooths his thumb across her cheek again, tips her chin up with his fingers, watches transfixed as even that little bit of contact makes her hesitate and trail off-- and she looks confused, he thinks, but also a little breathless and a little  _ curious _ , too. He desperately wants to kiss her again, in earnest this time, but he doesn’t-- not yet. He waits.

“Do you want me to?” He asks, smiling just a little, small and almost predatory.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles fretfully. “We shouldn’t--”

“Did it feel good?” Haytham interrupts, still stroking the roundness of her cheek with his thumb, the movement repetitive and obviously soothing. He lowers his voice, lets it develop a smooth, almost smoky timbre. “Did it feel good when I kissed you?”

She hesitates. And hesitates. And hesitates--

“Yes,” she admits shamefully. “Yes, but--”

“Did you enjoy it?”

She nods. Haytham bites back a victorious, nearly hungry smile.

“I did as well,” he murmurs, feels her shiver against him as his mouth lingers by her ear. “Will you let me kiss you again? I’d very much like to, darling.”

She caves, and it’s delicious.

“Master Kenway,” she breathes, and it’s not an answer, not really, but it’s what both of them need to hear, a reminder of the wrongness of the situation and the impropriety of it all, the fact that he is and will always be her mentor first and foremost, regardless of what will inevitably happen in this room.

And when he kisses her the third time he hums his pleasure as he tangles his fingers in her hair, gently tugs her closer and pushes his tongue into her mouth-- she lets him, of course, and she tastes good, delicate and sweet, just like he’d fantasized she would.

And it’s a beautiful thing, he thinks, an exquisite thing, the way that she gasps into his mouth when he lifts her small body up and sits her on the edge of his desk and places himself between her spread thighs in one fluid motion. The bulge of his cock is nearly uncomfortably hard against his trousers by this point, what with his restless fantasizing and his insatiable desire for her, and he wants to make sure she can feel it, smirks at her shocked shiver when he rocks his hips against hers shallowly.

“H-Haytham,” she mumbles, flushed and panting and looking particularly debauched like this, leaned back on his desk with his body between her legs. Her expression seems exposed and painfully innocent considering that she must not have noticed his hunger for her before now. “What--”

“Shh,” he murmurs, hushing her gently, hands smoothing down the delicate curve of her spine, movements soothing and slow. “Can you do that for me? Can you be quiet?”

Her nod is hasty and overeager, overcome by her constant need to please him-- and he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his power over her, but when she tentatively tugs his collar to bring him in for another kiss those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It’s delicious to have her initiate it and to have her want him in return, especially since it all seems so  _ new  _ to her,

and it’s a feeling Haytham is completely  _ intoxicated  _ by; half-drunk on her inexperience and the idea of being her  _ first.  _ It’s the control factor, he thinks shrewdly, well aware of his own desire for ownership, and his possessiveness, and his endless ambition.

It doesn’t very much matter, though, does it?

No, he thinks, it doesn’t, as he guides her hands to his shoulders, tugs her hips forward until her body is flush with his, responsive to every touch, every kiss, every word, vulnerable and open to Haytham’s desire.

“My beautiful girl,” he murmurs in between the kisses he leaves down her neck, fights the desire to leave a messy trail of marks over her soft skin; a claim, of sorts, proof to the rest of the world that she is  _ his  _ now, and no one else’s. “My girl, so good. My dearest, sweet little girl, perfect for me. All mine, ” he murmurs, and god, he wants mark her, but he doesn’t leave bruises, not yet-- he’s careful with her. His hands on her body are gentle and his mouth on hers is gentler yet, allowing her to explore and learn and experience, encouraging the soft sighs she gives when he nips at her bottom lip, nearly groaning at the noise she makes when he presses his hips against hers, when she feels just how painfully hard she’s made him--

And Haytham  _ wants. _

He wants to take her, right now, to bring her to his bed and strip her down and fuck her senseless, but he doesn’t.

He is nothing if not patient.

So he allows her to continue, to grow familiar with his hands and his mouth and the suffocating sweetness of their combined body heat--

And she slowly becomes bolder. 

She returns his kisses, wraps her arms around his neck to get herself closer to him, allows his hands to travel down to her hips, pulling her forwards until she’s balanced on the very edge of his desk. Her gasp when he teasingly slides his hands up beneath her shirt is gorgeous and intoxicating as she leans into his touch, eyes half-lidded and lips kiss-stung and expression wonderfully vulnerable--

And then--

_ And then. _

Her hand moves down from his shoulder and trembles as it flutters across his stomach and moves  _ down _ towards the bulge in his trousers-- he feels like the breath has been knocked out of his body at the sheer  _ unexpectedness  _ of it--

Her hand falters, like she’s lost her courage, and hovers just above his waistband.

And, no, Haytham thinks, that won’t do.

He reaches down and he takes her hand and he meets her eyes-- wide and tentative and dilated-- and he slowly, ever so slowly moves her hand  _ down. _

She shivers, licks her lips, closes her eyes--

“Can you feel that?” Haytham whispers, and her quick intake of breath and subsequent blush is answer enough. Her hand presses to the outline of his cock, and he nearly groans, so painfully aware of the sensation that he feels as if he’s been turned into a teenager again. “This is your doing, darling girl,” he says. “You’ve made quite the mess of me.”

“I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to, Master-- Haytham, I…” she stumbles over her words, dazed and unsure, but when he releases her wrist she doesn’t move her hand away-- no, rather, she glances up at him as if she’s asking for direction, and the trust in her eyes is  _ wonderful.  _

“There. Like that, good, perfect. You’ve been so good for me,” he says, smiling smugly as the praise makes her blush and preen. Haytham urges her on with the slightest nod, lets his eyes fall closed as she overcomes her discomfort and uncertainty in favor of her blind faith in him, and the knowledge of that trust stirs something low in his abdomen, makes him  _ ache  _ with the thrill of it all--

He inhales sharply when she touches him, and he opens his eyes, stares at her as she _feels,_ slowly and nervously takes the length of him in her hand through the rough fabric of his trousers.

She sighs when he kisses her again, squirming on the edge of the desk, body moving jerkily as if she’s torn on what she wants herself to do.

And, he thinks, she’s adapted particularly well, adjusted to his attention until she’s content and comfortable with his kisses and his hands on her body, but--

He needs  _ more.  _

He shouldn’t, of course, shouldn’t want to have her like this-- it’s not that she’s too young, no, it’s that he has a responsibility to the Templar Order and to  _ her,  _ to be a good teacher and a good mentor and a good guardian, but right now he’s anything but, and something about that makes it  _ better.  _

“Come here,” he says, still an order, and she complies easily, slides off of his desk and allows him to guide her backwards through the threshold into his bedroom, too caught up in his kisses to notice where she was, now, to realize what he intends to do--

He spins her around until her back is flush against his chest, and rests his chin lightly on her shoulder, hands spreading over her hips. 

“I want you to take your clothes off for me,” Haytham whispers, voice low and greedy, “Let me watch.” 

And he’s aching for her,  _ god,  _ he grinds the length of his cock up against her backside, wanting to see and touch and possess every inch of her body-- but she stiffens when he says it, stumbles and stalls and hesitates, and he wonders if perhaps he’s moved too fast.

“Come, darling girl, don’t be like that,” he whispers, pressing a treacherously sweet kiss to the exposed skin at the back of her neck. “Do it for me. I want to see you.”

“Haytham,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to twist around to face him, “Haytham, I can’t--”

“You  _ can,”  _ he urges, allowing his voice to take on a nearly desperate undertone, one he’s not entirely sure is fake. And when she does nothing he spins her around and kisses her again,  _ hard,  _ forces his tongue into her mouth and runs his hands over her body until she’s eager and malleable, and then he takes the hem of her shirt and pulls it  _ up,  _ she lifts her arms willingly for him to take it off of her but he doesn’t.

“ _ Please,”  _ she complains, leaning against him impatiently, inhibitions worn away and shut down and completely, utterly  _ gone.  _

_ “ _ Undress for me,” he growls, nipping at her mouth before moving down to the base of her neck.

She moans easily when his teeth find her collarbone, and lets him guide her hand back to his cock, and when she touches him her hesitancy is gone, replaced by a curiosity and interest and something dangerously close to  _ want. _

She steps back.

Haytham expresses his displeasure with a whisper of a growl that quickly dies in his chest when she pulls up her shirt, revealing the beautiful skin of her stomach and the curve of her ribs and the softness of her breasts--

Haytham swallows, and feels something catch in the back of his throat.

He sits down on the bed, leans back, and  _ stares. _

She flushes under his gaze and hesitates but doesn’t stop-- the shirt moves up further, up over her head and off completely, landing on the ground at her feet in a puddle of plain white cotton.

“Keep going,” he urges, cocking his head to the side with a smile that’s mostly teeth, sharp and predatory. Haytham allows himself to move his hand down to his cock, running his palm along the length of it through his trousers-- and she can see him, he knows, she can see him watching her and touching himself and that knowledge is so,  _ so  _ delicious, the sight of her eyes fixated solely on him is beautifully filthy and perfectly  _ wrong-- _

Her trousers are next. 

They’re tight, black, part of the standard uniform for female trainees-- she slips her fingers into the waistband and tugs down a little, slowly reveals a flash of white underwear and soft, creamy skin. And  _ oh,  _ he so desperately wants to leave marks there, bite bruises into the insides of her thighs, and the softness of her body is practically  _ begging _ for it and God knows his self control is already frayed enough as it is, just by being around her. His girl is so  _ pretty,  _ so delicious and delectable and  _ innocent  _ that it’s a miraculous wonder that he’s been able to keep his hands to himself for so long.

“Come here,” Haytham murmurs, watching her intensely with eyes half-lidded as she approaches, beautiful and entirely  _ his--  _ his student, his protege, his  _ ward,  _ really, because he’d be lying to himself if he said it wasn’t so. Even that realization doesn’t spark the slightest flicker of guilt in him. He never once imagined himself as being a good man, and feels no need to try to be.

She pauses at the edge of the bed, and Haytham stands, guides her down on it and situates herself between her legs before she even has the chance to say anything, and when she tries to press her thighs together he pushes them apart again.

“Be good,” Haytham murmurs, looking up at her beseechingly. “You’re fine, beautiful girl. You’re alright.”

“But--” she shudders as his fingers slide over her underwear, feel how wet they are, sticky and slick and hot, and her words quickly turn into a choked-out  _ moan  _ when he rubs little soothing circles with his thumb over her clit through the soaked fabric--

“ _ Daddy.” _

And Haytham-- he  _ stops,  _ he stops and he groans and he feels his cock twitch and a searing ache of heat flare through his abdomen--

“ _ Christ,  _ girl,” he growls, sinking his teeth into the soft, pale skin of her thigh, giving into his desire and sucking a bruise there.

“Oh, God, I’m-- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” she gasps, and Haytham hushes her with a kiss, aggressive and needy, all sharp teeth and wet tongues and the aching weight of his desire.

“You  _ did  _ mean it,” he says. “Don’t lie to me. Say it again.”

He yanks her panties down and off, tosses them away, and spreads her thighs until they’re hitched over his shoulders and he looks up at her from between her legs with a dark,  _ dark  _ stare. “ _ Again.” _

“I don’t--” she begins, but he licks a long, wet stripe up one thigh, sucks and nibbles at her skin, and her words dissolve into a soft, fragile keen-- she can’t speak, she looks lost, eyes glossy and body taut and lips red-raw from his kisses. She shudders when he moves to the other side, nips and kisses up from her knee to the wet apex of her thighs, breath ghosting hot across her cunt, dripping and wet and warm, beautifully exposed for him.

“Say it,” he orders, as his mouth descends over her, hungry and demanding and perhaps even  _ devouring,  _ and soon he has one finger inside of her, making her shudder in surprise and rock her hips towards him for more. He stops her just to establish that he’s still in charge, holds her hips down and teases her, alters between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and impossibly light circles around her clit. He adds another finger, begins moving in, out, curling them to find the right spot-- and she’s so  _ tight,  _ god, he can’t begin to imagine how good she’ll feel around his cock--

Her breath hitches when he crooks his fingers just right, and the broken moan she releases is  _ gorgeous  _ and the way her hips jolt against his hand is  _ perfect _ , perfectly innocent and perfectly debauched and perfectly  _ his,  _ his good girl, his sweet, sweet girl--

“Please,” she whines, as his gentle hand slides up and down her ribcage; a steady touch, patient and soothing, but it only makes her more restless. 

“You know what I want to hear,” Haytham murmurs, looking up at her wickedly. “Go on, pretty girl, use your words.” 

“H-Haytham,” she says, shuddering, rocking her hips up, “Please-- more.”

She’s beautiful like this, trying to fuck herself on his fingers and grinding her hips up towards his hands and his mouth and the tantalizing offer of pleasure--

“Not enough, I’m afraid,” Haytham says, smirking, confident now that he has her so easily caught in his trap. “Say it.”

He presses gentle, encouraging kisses down between her thighs, feels her tense for a second before relaxing into it as his tongue darts over her clit, swirling up and around over and over and over, utterly  _ devouring  _ until she’s squirming, his hands tight on her spread thighs to hold her still--

“It’s too much,” she whines, struggling, lips parted and jaw slack and eyes screwed shut. “Too much, Daddy, please--”

And there it is again. Haytham groans at the word and he presses a final, sloppy kiss to her skin before sitting up, studying the mess he’d made of her, the dark red flush spreading across her heaving chest, her half-lidded eyes and reddened mouth, lips parted and breathing shallow--

He takes off his overcoat, starts on the buttons of his uniform and works it off his chest, tugs his belt through his trousers with a rasp of leather against cotton. It falls to the floor, and the sound of the metal buckle clinking is strangely loud in the waiting silence of the room.

He meets her eyes. 

“Do you want something, darling girl?” He asks quietly, smile selfish and possessive, his trousers slung low on his hips as she watches him with a neediness that stretches his patience to the very limit until it takes all of his energy to stop himself from fucking her--

“Please,” she keens, looking up at him with wide-open eyes, “Please, Daddy. Want you.”

Haytham curses lowly under his breath and rids himself of his trousers, kicks them to the floor in quick, efficient movements, and moves back onto the bed, kneels in front of her and takes hold of her hips and angles them up--

“ _ Please,  _ Daddy,” she urges again, slightly louder. 

Haytham inhales, exhales, digs his fingers into her hips--

He pushes in slowly, body trembling with the force and the effort of restraining himself as his eyes screw shut and his lips part and his jaw goes slack.

“ _ Oh, _ ” he groans, savoring the feeling of her, tight and hot and  _ wet. _

When he bottoms out, she shivers, warm and flushed all over, looks up at him like she needs to be grounded or needs something to keep herself from being completely overwhelmed by the sensation of being full and filled and  _ stretched-- _

“You’re all right, aren’t you?” Haytham asks, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. “My pretty girl. You’re fine.”

“Fine,” she repeats, dazed, not quite a complete answer but as close to one as she seems to be able to manage right now, as she rocks her hips forward and squirms on his cock. “Fine, Daddy, please, I need--”

“I know,” Haytham soothes, running his hands down her arms, touch soft and comforting, and the sound she makes when he begins to move sends a searing flare of heat through his abdomen as she clenches around him, rolling her hips in time with his thrusts, shallow and painfully slow.

“Faster,” she calls out,  and Haytham chuckles at her neediness, leans over her to trail kisses down the curve of her neck. She’s begging, and it’s so pretty, he thinks, something he wants to hear over and over and over again, a constant litany of  _ please Daddy feels so good, want more more  _ **_more,_ ** _  faster, please, need it, Daddy, need you-- _

It’s a beautiful sound, and he’s never been one to deny his girl what she wants.

And when Haytham begins to fuck her in earnest she chokes on a broken, shattered moan, whimpers in time with his thrusts, and the rest of the world seems to become a faint, colorless hum in the background, her attention focused solely on him and the feeling of his cock inside of her as she moves her hips to meet his, fucking herself more deeply on his cock with shuddered, trembling moans--

Haytham leans down over her and balances his weight on his forearms and the angle changes, the head of his cock is catching on something soft and hot inside of her and her back arches, she throws her head back at the sensation, hips bucking towards him for more. 

“Beautiful girl,” Haytham is murmuring, not quite sure she’s coherent enough to respond. He doesn’t think she’s even processing much at all but she still shivers at his words, flushes at the praise, “You’re mine, aren’t you? Always mine. My darling girl, my plaything, dearest, sweet girl, so good, taking my cock so well.”

“Yes,” she says brokenly, as his hips snap forwards harder, until the sound of skin against skin is filthy and loud in the surrounding silence and Haytham begins to lose track of how long she’s been crying out for him, how long she’s been begging,  _ more, more, Daddy, please, need more, feels so good, keep going-- _

But he gives her what she wants, fucks her with a recklessness he hasn’t felt in a long time, until every rock of his hips into her is drawing out a hapless, hopeless moan from her mouth and she looks like she’s struggling not to fall apart, the slight sheen of sweat on her forehead and tears pricking hotly at the corners of her eyes; and when she comes it’s beautiful, with a gasp and a shudder and a moan that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

“So good,” Haytham grunts as he fucks her through it, pleasure building as she tightens around him and gasps out little “ah”s with every thrust, unable to do much more than cry out for him now, overstimulated and well-fucked as his movements become rough and jerky and his nails dig into her hips. “So perfect. Did so well, so good, my beautiful girl, my pretty little darling girl always so good for me--”

“Yes,” she moans, spent and used and pliant beneath him-- “Yes, Daddy. Yours. Your darling girl, a good girl.”

And Haytham knows this is true-- because she is still young and the world is large and scary to her and with him she is safe, and he wishes he could keep her here like this in this perfect moment forever, where she is beautiful and  _ his. _

“Mine,” he whispers, fucks into her once, twice, stills with a groan and a hiss through gritted teeth as his orgasm is wrenched from him, the sensation powerful and all-consuming. “Always mine.”

“Always,” she responds, heavy-eyed and hypersensitive beneath him. “Always.”

There is a warmth afterwards, something Haytham is not used to, as he grabs something to wipe the both of them off-- the sheets are ruined, he knows, but he is too tired to bother. His girl is weary, and when he lies down next to her she turns until her face is pressed into his side, arm slung over his chest, seemingly drawn to his body heat and the comfort of his touch.

He allows it. He wants it.

It’s good, and while she may not always be his, she is in this moment, and Haytham finds himself perfectly content with that.


End file.
